


Needles and Wolves

by Hooda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Feels, Arya and Jon reunion, F/M, Family Reunions, Older Arya, Older Characters, Other, Reminiscing, Returning Home, Season/Series 07, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hooda/pseuds/Hooda
Summary: Smallest of three was a woman, younger and quicker than the two lumbering swordmasters she was parrying her way through an unbalanced fight with. Unlike her opponents she wore no armor.Her dark hair was half pulled up into a bun and the rest was cut short above her shoulders.Jon pulls himself short at the courtyard entrance._______Jon returns to Winterfell from the Wall. Arya spars with the Master of Arms and Brienne at the same time. Set sometime after 7x04





	Needles and Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first GoT story so please, if there is anything I missed or botched, feel free to let me know in the comments below. I like to hear about what I can improve on as a writer and as a fan of such an amazing drama!
> 
> This is just my take on what a reunion would look like between Arya and Jon, if they ever had one in S7.

**Needles and Wolves**

_______

The dogs barked madly.

Somewhere off in the distance of the main courtyard, there was the unmistakable smell emanating from the kitchens and smoking houses.

Winter had arrived and with it a slew of workers intent on cooking in preparation for the season. It could last months or even years, but continuous rotations of snowfalls could not stop a cook or kitchen wench from plundering through the kitchens to get sensible and heartwarming meals ready.

Jon especially enjoyed the traditional fried apple slices that were brought to his rooms as a boy on colder nights than the norm. The cooks would take care to add an extra sprinkle of sugar or cinnamon, no matter how many times they risked getting reprimanded for their daunting actions on those colder nights.

He dimly reminisces about those cold nights under a pelt blanket with a plate of sweet caramelized fried treats. His horse trudges through the muddy front entrance of his childhood home, Winterfell. Snow fell softly from the vast greyness of the sky in little sprinkles of thick white snowflakes. It blanketed the carts sitting about unused across the courtyard or covered the heads of people trudging from one place to another under the bundle of heavy cloaks and sodden boots.

The journey south from the Wall was a trudging one. It left Jon weary and ready for a good night’s sleep. His travelling company needed much the same. Tormund was half ready to fall off his horse, exhaustion obvious across his bright eyes. The Wildling’s axe was slung across his back and he often made the habit of reaching back to touch it with his fingertips at every suspicious brush of noise the entire journey south.

Gendry looked just about ready to keel over in the saddle. It was sheer willpower to reach safety that kept them moving through the bitterness without stopping.

It was a bliss relief to see Winterfell on the horizon just as the sun began to dip into the low evening hours.

People mill about the courtyard. A guard rushes off into the main keep, presumably to find his sister, Sansa. The bitter breeze nips at both Jon’s ears and the tip of his nose.

They all dismount with a relief that seems to placate them until they can find a someplace to crash and rest for the evening. The prospective idea of a warm hearth and bowl of stew with a side of ale sounded divine to the travelers, who had not seen a proper meal since their stop at an inn miles from the Wall.

Jon hands off the reins of his horse to the steward who sidles up to his side without a word. His companions do the same, grumbling as they pull their belongings from the backs of the saddle straps and dumping their sodden sleeping rolls on the ground.

Tormund chuckles at the the steward’s face that picks up on the reeking state of his sleeping roll. It was shoved carelessly into its straps and lined with dried twigs from the long nights hey spent under half-dead trees.

Sometimes, when Jon truly immerses himself into his memories, he can still imagine his father standing over the courtyard as Bran practiced to shoot arrows at a straw target.

And yet no matter how much time Jon stood back in the courtyard, or his rooms, or the halls, Winterfell was _different_. It was not the same home he grew up around where his father was responsible for hiring carpenters to reline ancient fences or reinforce old wooden deck rails.

It was different in the sense that it was not rebuilt by its true owners, therefore felt like it still carried a touch of its last tenants. Roose Bolton had made sure to reconstruct the majority of the roofing with more reinforced wood planks rather than use the style the Starks preferred for generations. The railings to the overhead walking decks were painted red and black, which were colors suited more for the Boltons than any other house in the North. It was home, but not home at the same time.

The blacksmith’s corner remained the same, since the furnaces were solid pieces that could never be removed from the foundations of Winterfell. The main hall still served its purpose but now it was almost three times its original size and the floors were lined with rich river stones.

Even the Broken Tower still stood, proud and sturdy, as a testament to all their enemies who dared look upon Winterfell with greedy intentions.

A few guards pass the arriving travelling group and make their way deeper into the castle’s courtyard. They barely pass Jon a second look and instead continue inward.

It takes Jon a moment of silent concentration to realize what drew their attention.

The unmistakable ringing noise of distant clashing blades wafted through the air. Another guard accompanied by a woman with rosy cheeks and dusty yellow hair hurry towards the sound, excited grins on their faces.

Tormund makes a grunting noise; something about wanting a decent meal. Gendry mutters something in response. Jon tunes them out.

The snow falls thicker through the sky, but it does not stop Jon from trudging the muddy path instead of heading inside to see if Sansa was ever going to make an appearance. The mud sucks onto the heels of his boots, which in turn makes squelching sounds every step he takes.

There were three figures clad in typical dark uniforms. The tallest of the three was Brienne of Tarth, obvious by the golden sheen of her crop cut hair. Her armor was cleaner than the last time Jon saw her and her face was flustered from constant movement.

The second figure was the Master of Arms. A burly fellow with muscles to taunt and a sneer to spike his opponents with malicious contempt, the Master was a true ally of the North and one of the top most skilled swordsmen Jon had the honor of meeting. Sansa had been wary of him at first, especially at the looming height he took advantage of and showing off a scar that covered the majority of his left cheek.

Smallest of three was a young woman, younger and quicker than the two lumbering swordmasters she was parrying her way through an unbalanced fight with. Unlike her opponents she wore no armor but a leather kip that was obviously tailored to her. Her dark hair was half pulled up into a bun and the rest was cut short above her shoulders.

Jon pulls himself short at the smaller courtyard entrance.

Arya moved quickly about the space. Her feet worked separately from her body as she tucked her blade between her shoulders and ducked each blow her opponents tried to land on her. The larger swords would clash together over the space where her head had been a split second before, or hit the mud when she twirled her way masterfully around the swinger’s arm.

It was a dance and a fight at the same time, but Jon was too busy trying not to let his heart run away from him. It pounded at the sight of the smaller woman, lithe and agile as a cat, who ducked every blow the frustrated Brienne threw at her. The Master was turning red in the face, too flustered to think straight when Arya twirled her own thinner, lighter blade around expertly in between her fingers.

Needle flashed like a silver streak through the air as it came into contact only briefly enough to deflect the harder hits the Master and Brienne began to land. Arya adjusted her footing so she was standing sideways yet towards her opponents at the same time.

Brienne breaks first.

The guardian’s composure breaks and she begins swinging maddening blows in an attempt to dissuade from taking any advancing steps into the fighting midst. The Master takes a few paces back for himself and wipes a sweaty palm with the back of his wrist.

Jon cannot rip his eyes from Arya when she expertly twists around Brienne’s swinging arm quicker than light. Quicker than the eye can see, Arya was right beneath the taller woman’s chin and had a black dagger at her throat.

Brienne dropped her sword in surrender.

The courtyard went silent save for the labored breathing of the fighters.

The Master of Arms breaks the peace. With a bellowing battle cry that could probably be heard from deep within the catacombs, he raised his sword high and mightily above his head. Space between him and his target seemed to disappear by the second as he lumbered towards Arya, who still had her back turned, at a breakneck speed.

Jon’s hand flashed to the pommel of his sword.

Quicker than the eye could see, Arya ducked just as the Master brought his sword down and Brienne jumped out of the way of getting cleaved clearly into two pieces. The sword drives deep into the squelching mud of the courtyard’s ground.

In those few seconds, Arya had dropped just low enough to point Needle right through the Master’s calf muscle. The surprise from missing his target turned to fury as he toppled down onto one knee, his hands leaning most of his weight onto the pommel of his sword that was still wedged into the ground for balance.

Arya’s knife flashed through the air again. Like before, she brought it clean to the side of her opponent’s neck, just over the vein responsible for the continuous blood flow into the brain. They stood there for a minute, quiet and evaluating the other with an intensity that brought shivers down the small gathered audience’s spines.

The Master of Arms grinned wickedly.

Without a word, Arya replaced her knife with a helping hand. The Master pulled himself up and shook the mud from his knees before tilting his head at Arya in acknowledgement.

The Master turned around to glance up at the single member audience, Sansa, and bowed his head in respect before limping carefully away.

“Bloody hell,” Gendry breathed amazed and startling Jon, who had no idea the younger man had gotten so close. “It’s Arry.”

Arya turns at the sound of her old nickname.

Jon’s breath catches in his throat when their eyes meet.

Snow falls thick and heavy over them, covering everything from their hair to their eyelashes. They stand completely still, unsure and stunned into silence.

Arya gulps and her dark eyes flash between her brother and her friend, unsure which one to address first. Thankfully, Tormund makes that decision for her.

“That was some of the best fighting I’ve ever seen in a little girl,” he says out loud for all to hear. He slings his pack comfortably over his shoulder and with a free hand gives Arya a good pat on the shoulder. He disappears into the keep without a second glance back.

Sansa watches carefully from overhead, hands pressing into the wood of the overlooking railing.

Jon takes the first steps forward. Arya covers the rest.

No matter her size or age, she was still his little sister. In his memories, she was always the little girl with mussed braids and needle pricks in her fingers from failing to concentrate hard enough on her embroidery lessons. And for nearly seven years believing she had disappeared their father was taken from them, Jon had always remembered her as his _little sister, his little Arya._

She practically leaps into his arms, her added weight making Jon stumble a few steps back before he can properly wrap his arms around Arya to hold her. The toes of her boots barely skim the muddy ground.

The last time they held the other like this, Jon could easily pick her up and hold her a good two feet off the ground.

He feels her nuzzle her nose into the side of his neck and breathe him in, same as he does to the spot of hair his nose rests on.

“Welcome home,” she whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave comments - pos or neg - below! They're greatly appreciated!


End file.
